


If You Love Me Let Me Know

by Harleydoll



Category: Murder In Mind, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst and Porn, Bottom Charles, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Poor Charles, Prostitution, Protective Erik, References to Illness, Sex, Terminal Illnesses, Top Erik, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:52:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harleydoll/pseuds/Harleydoll
Summary: Erik reads the neon words for probably the hundredth time. IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW. Erik stares at the window for a long moment, then flicks his cigarette over the railing and pads back inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this once before and took it down right after, because I don't actually like this fic. It's super tropey, super angsty, and should probably really have been more detailed than it is. I think I'll leave it up this time anyway. Also this is extremely loosely based on that one scene with James McAvoy in Murder in Mind, so there will be occasional references to that as well.

 

Erik watches the red neon letters flicker to life in the window adjacent to his own, bathing the apartment across the alley in a harsh artificial glow. _IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW._

 

Erik sighs and rubs his eyes, knowing that if his neighbour is home, it must be late. Or early, he supposes – the time on his laptop screen reads 3:54 am. He hits “save” on his latest attempt at writing and snatches his cigarettes from the corner of the desk, before dragging his sleep-deprived body to the balcony. Erik winces as his bare feet hit the cold cement, and again as he lights a cigarette and drapes his bare arms over the icy metal of his balcony railing.

 

He always has a cigarette before going to sleep to clear his mind and give his eyes a break from the computer screen. It’s not to watch the slight silhouette of a young man pace behind those neon words, stripping off pieces of clothing as he goes, and flop down on the tiny metal cot that passes for a bed. It’s definitely not to make sure that his neighbour is home and safe before the sun comes up, because Erik knows what he does after dark and how dangerous the night is for someone like him.

 

Sometimes Erik goes for a run after midnight, down the Sunset Strip that in no way resembles the real thing, past the bars, strip joints, and seedy clubs that pass for night life, past the staggered line of hookers baring miscellaneous body parts, to a narrow alleyway where exotic dancers, waitresses, and bartenders smoke and swear and rant on the steps of their back doors. It’s there that Erik first saw him, alternating between hanging out with the meandering group and propositioning passersby. With those deliberately mussed chestnut waves and mesmerizing blue eyes, it was no wonder he was never turned away.

 

One night, Erik casually slowed to a walk as he reached the five or six loiterers, slowing even more as he caught the young man sauntering up behind him from the corner of his eye.

 

“Are you looking for something?”

 

After all those nights passing from a distance, Erik had never imagined the rich, intoxicating British accent that rolled off his neighbour's tongue.

 

As Erik turned to face him, the man continued in an effortlessly seductive tone, “I can give you what you want. Interested?”

 

That night, when Erik looked into those piercing blue eyes, his own gaze sliding to the teasing glimpse of collarbone beneath an oversized beige long sleeve tee, he almost said yes. Almost.

 

Now, tonight, watching his shadow pass by once more before falling unceremoniously onto his unmade bed, Erik reads the neon words for probably the hundredth time. _IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW._ Erik stares at the window for a long moment, then flicks his cigarette over the railing and pads back inside.

 

~

 

Charles strips off his shirt as he trudges to his bed, the twin size cot appearing somehow further away with every dragging step. He throws the shirt at the vanity mirror, the only other piece of furniture in the room, wincing as he catches a glimpse of the bruises decorating his back and forearms. At least the guy had paid up front, and the bottle of Grey Goose Charles swiped from the kitchen counter didn’t hurt either.

 

Charles takes a swig of the vodka, winces, and downs another couple of ounces before lowering himself slowly onto the mattress. His entire body aches, and leaning down to stash the bottle under his bed is absolute agony. Nothing a little sleep can’t cure, he thinks. Hopefully Shaw won’t come knocking for the rent again at the crack of dawn.

 

As if on cue, there’s a knock at his door, and Charles groans. “I swear he just waits for me to get comfortable,” he mutters.

 

He snatches his shirt off the desk where it fell and shrugs it on as he trudges back to the door; Shaw doesn’t need to see the bruises. Charles checks the chain locks and then opens the door its few allowed inches, only to find a man who is decidedly not his landlord on the other side.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” Charles asks, although he realizes he knows the answer. He recognizes the sharp angles of the man’s jaw, peppered with unshaven stubble, and those green-gray eyes that seem to pierce right into his own. He’s even wearing the same charcoal grey trench coat and matching scarf from the last time Charles saw him.

 

Charles had been at the 7 Eleven on the Strip, counting out the last of his change for a pack of cigarettes and knowing he wouldn’t have enough, when this guy walked in, dropped a twenty on the counter, then pointed at Charles’ pack and said, “Make it two.”

 

Charles had just stared at him, completely caught off guard by this strange and very attractive man that was willing to pay for his nicotine fix, but had turned him down only a few nights ago for a quick shag.

 

“I…I live across the alley. In the flat across from you.”

 

Charles drags himself back to the present and focuses back on his visitor. “Look pal, if you’re expecting payment for the fags—”

 

“No!” The guy looks offended at Charles’ suggestion. “I just…I saw your lights on. That’s why I’m here.”

 

“To bitch about my lights? They’ve been on every night for the past two years,” Charles replies. “I’m not about to change my habits just for you.” He moves to shut the door, but the man grabs the edge to stop him. The tips of their fingers brush together, and Charles instinctively draws back at the contact.

 

“I love you,” the man blurts out.

 

Charles gapes at him through the crack in the door. “Yeah, alright.” He forces a short laugh and moves to close the door again, but his visitor is still blocking the way. “Look, I, uh, appreciate the thought, but I really don’t need another obsessed stalker. So if you’ll excuse me…”

 

“I’ve lived in the flat across the alley from yours for over a year. And in that time, I’ve watched you come home every night just to make sure you were safe.”

 

“Really not helping your case here.”

 

“I know what you do on the Strip, and I know that you had a much better life before this one.” The man digs a crumpled photo out of his pocket and offers them through the crack. “You dropped this a couple of months back.”

 

Charles snatches it from between his fingers, smoothing wrinkled images of himself and a blonde girl, both of them barely teenagers and smoking in the back of a very expensive car. There’s a blue scribble on the back that reads, _my brother, the rebel! xoxo_ and a mysterious brown stain that Charles had never been able to remove. He smiles faintly at the memory of his sister holding the drugs in one hand, a bottle of Patron in the other, and nodding her head at the waiting town car. It was the one time she’d managed to get him to do anything remotely irresponsible, and he had always wondered what she would think of him now.

 

Charles blinks and realizes that the guy is still standing there, watching him intently. “Where did you get this?” Charles demands angrily.

 

“I told you, you dropped it a couple of months ago.”

 

“And don’t tell me, you were just waiting for the right time to return it,” Charles rolls his eyes. “Perhaps you should have opened with that instead.”

 

“Would it have made a difference?” the man asks, suddenly more hopeful.

 

Charles stares at him. _This guy’s a nutter,_ he thinks, but there’s something about him, the way he looks at Charles with such sincerity and earnest, that causes Charles to pause in his judgment.

 

“What’s your name?” he asks finally.

 

“…Erik.”

 

Charles nods and closes the door, releases the chain locks, and reopens it, stepping aside to allow Erik entrance. “You’d better come in, then,” Charles gestures inside impatiently. “Before I change my mind.”

 

~

 

Erik stands awkwardly in the middle of the tiny flat, watching as Charles carefully stores his photograph in the drawer of a crooked, worn out vanity desk before returning and deftly unwinding Erik’s scarf from around his throat.

 

“Take off your coat,” Charles tells him. He still hasn’t offered his name, but Erik remembers the girls on the Strip calling him over, offering cigarettes and kitchen leftovers after hours. He doesn’t tell Charles this, of course; he isn’t going to screw this up by acting like more of a stalker. Instead Erik does as he’s told and shudders as Charles slips his fingers into the waistband of Erik’s black track pants, trailing down the length of his cock. Charles snakes his other hand around Erik’s neck and pulls him down to whisper in his ear.

 

“Tell me again,” Charles murmurs, wrapping his hand around Erik’s length. “Tell me why you’re here.”

 

“I love you,” Erik’s voice is rough with desire, and slowly, reverently, he rests his hands on Charles’ slim hips.

 

“Again.”

 

“I love you,” Erik repeats, more forcefully this time.

 

“Then show me.” And Charles is kissing him, at once desperate and demanding, and Erik is more than willing to match that desperation with his own. Charles is pressing against him now, closing the distance between them as Erik ruts against his hand. Erik’s fingers slide up Charles’ hips, attempting to remove the shirt that separates their skin, but Charles stops him, instead guiding him to the button of Charles’ jeans.

 

“Leave it,” he mutters, dragging Erik towards the bed. “There’s lube in my back pocket. Use it.” He releases Erik and allows him to unbutton his jeans before drawing Erik’s shirt up and over his head in one swift movement. Erik kicks off his shoes and track pants and lowers Charles onto the cot, his jeans already in a tangled knot on the floor.

 

“The lube,” Charles repeats, and Erik holds it up between two fingers. He rips open the packet and coats the same two fingers, but when Charles spreads his legs almost mechanically, Erik hesitates.

 

“This is what you wanted, right?” Charles takes Erik's wrist to guide him to his entrance.

 

Erik leans forward to meet Charles' eyes, their faces mere inches apart. “What do _you_ want?”

 

Charles stiffens. “No one's ever asked me that.”

 

“I'm asking.”

 

“I...I want you to make love to me. Not fuck me or make me do something weird and kinky to get you off. You said you loved me, so I want you to show me.” The words come out in a rush, and Erik can't help but smile when he sees Charles blush.

 

“Okay.” Erik circles Charles' entrance with the tip of his index finger, teasing before pushing gently inside. Charles gasps aloud, not because it hurts, but because it doesn't. Erik is so careful, so thorough, despite how loose Charles is from earlier in the night. Without thinking, Charles wraps his arms around Erik's neck and kisses him, soft and sweet and uncertain and Erik is slipping a second finger inside him and god he wanted this but he wasn't ready for how damn _real_ it feels, and the look on Erik's face tells him he said those words aloud and he wants too hide his face in shame. Instead he lets Erik kiss him again and again, down his neck and throat while Charles rides his fingers, Erik slowing him down every time he tries to go harder, faster.

 

Charles whines, actually _whines_ , when Erik withdraws his fingers. “Don't stop,” he begs, but Erik is re positioning himself, the head of his erection bobbing between Charles' legs.

 

“You're so beautiful like this,” Erik murmurs, stroking Charles' matted hair.

 

Charles opens his mouth to respond but instead lets out a moan as Erik slides inside him and he feels like a virgin again the way he's writhing beneath Erik's body, wrapping his legs around Erik's waist to bring him deeper inside, barely able to see straight when Erik fills him completely. He's shaking, now, clutching at Erik like a lifeline, burying his face in Erik's shoulder to hide the emotions he's worked so hard to keep in check, and then Erik is moving, thrusting, and Charles can't remember ever doing this and having it feel so bloody amazing. There's no pain, no disconnect between body and mind while some nameless john uses and abuses him. Erik, is giving, not taking, loving, not dominating, and Charles finally lets go and loses himself, riding Erik not just physically but emotionally as he gives himself in to everything Erik has to offer.

 

Charles cries out as he climaxes, digging his nails into Erik's back and Erik comes inside him seconds later, breathlessly repeating Charles' name like a mantra against his throat and Charles, much to his own surprise, can't help but find that almost endearing.

 

Erik moves to roll over, but Charles isn't ready to let go and they find themselves on their sides, still entangled in each other and breathing hard while Charles attempts to sort through the barrage of thoughts and emotions screaming in his head. He's never had an orgasm with a partner before. He's never enjoyed being with a partner before. He's never thought of the person fucking him as a _partner_ , and that realization is enough to make him snap. He pulls away from Erik and stands up, naked and trembling and feeling far more vulnerable than he ever has. He grabs his shirt off the floor and quickly shrugs it on, suddenly feeling the need to cover himself. Erik only watches him in silence.

 

“Get out,” Charles whispers.

 

Erik sits up, visibly hurt. “Charles--”

 

“Get. Out.”

 

Erik stares at him for a long moment, but stands and picks his clothes up off the floor. He dresses quickly and deliberately brushes Charles' hand as he walks to the door. He takes one last glance at Charles, who is still standing next to the bed, fists clenched at his sides, before quietly slipping out the door. The moment the door closes, Charles sinks back onto the bed and buries his face in his hands.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of dramatic backstory and, as promised, a boatload of angst xD Chapter 3 to come later this week!

_THEN:_

In hindsight, Charles should have seen it coming. He was, after all, the heir to the Xavier fortune, and the only obstacle to his stepfather obtaining it for himself. But he never expected Kurt Marko to go full on villainous and attempt to permanently dispose of him. He'd just left the tiny little Chinese restaurant, refusing his date's offer of a ride home but accepting the boy's sweet, tentative kiss under the light of the streetlamp. It was a first for both of them, not just the kissing but choosing to show that kind of affection in public, and only one of them would have to pay for it tonight.

 

He couldn't tell how many there were, only that they waited until he was alone and swarmed him, shoving him back into the nearest alley and then he felt his cheek scraping the brick wall and warm, wet blood dribbling down his chin. They called him names, _queer_ and _faggot_ and _pussy_ as fists and feet connected anywhere and everywhere and Charles didn't even try to call for help, just crumpled to the ground, waiting for them to stop, but even when the beatings ended, they weren't finished with him.

 

Charles floated in and out of consciousness as each one took their turn, and by the third (or was it the fourth?) he couldn't feel anything anymore. He barely registered their laughter in the distance as they left him there on pavement, half undressed and bleeding from God knew where anymore. Ever so slowly he took a harsh, shuddering breath and curled in on himself, letting the darkness take him over.

 

_NOW:_

Charles stamps out his fourth cigarette and immediately lights another, slouching into the back doorway of the Hellfire Club.

 

“Jesus, it's hot out tonight.” Angel shrugs off her black satin robe to reveal a matching fringed bra and panties as she stepped over Charles and out into the alley. She eyes his cigarette with disapproval as she hands him one of two cold beers she'd five finger discounted from the bar. “You keep that up, you'll end up with cancer or something,” she comments.

 

“A little late for that,” Charles mutters.

 

“Hmm?” Angel cracks open her own can and takes a long swig.

 

“What are you doing out so early?” Charles asks, briskly changing the subject.

 

Angel turns to watch the hookers out on the street corner, revealing the massive, intricate wing tattoos taking up her entire back. “The Lady Frost is performing tonight,” she sneers. “Apparently the sudden heat wave woke the Ice Queen from her slumber.” She nods at the women on the corner, wearing even less than usual in the scorching summer heat. Even the sun's retreat to the other side of the earth hadn't reduced the ungodly temperature today, but Charles seems entirely impervious in his usual jeans and beige, long sleeve tee. “Why aren't you out there with them?”

 

Charles shrugs. “Not in the mood, I guess.” That was a lie, of course. He was never in the mood for this, but tonight, something had changed. He knew what it was like now to have someone touch him they way he wanted to be touched, to have sex for a better reason than to make his overdue rent. He couldn't get Erik's hands out of his head, the way they'd caressed and held him so tenderly, the way Erik had entered him so gently, not with greed and hunger but—and Charles shoves the “L” word far, far from his mind—something more.

 

“Earth to Charles,” Angel waves her hand in front of Charles' face, and he jumps at the sound of her voice.

 

“Sorry. I was just...thinking.”

 

Angel narrows her eyes at him. “You know we drink to prevent that kind of thing.”

 

“I know. I just--” And then Charles spots him, wearing only a pair of grey track pants, jogging across the street and then slowing to a walk as he passes the back alley, obviously searching for Charles but not seeing him in the shadow of the doorway.

 

“You!” Charles scrambles to his feet, shoving his now half empty beer into Angel's free hand and dropping his unfinished cigarette on the ground. He stalks over to Erik and cuts him off midstep. “This is all your fault!”

 

Erik stares at him, uncomprehending. “I'm sorry?”

 

“You'd better be!” Charles grabs Erik's arm and drags him around the corner, out of the view of his coworkers. He rolls his eyes as they all peek around the edge of the building anyway, but chooses to ignore them and lowers his voice so only Erik can hear him. “Thanks to you, I can't go and hang around there with the rest of them.” Charles points at the group behind him, and they all quickly duck behind the club. The second Charles drops his arm, they're back again, peeking very indiscreetly at the pair.

 

“I'm not sure I understand.”

 

Charles throws up his hands in exasperation. “The thought of anyone other than you touching me makes me want to vomit and I can't do my goddamn job and my rent is three months overdue and I'm going to get evicted and it's your bloody fault!”

 

Erik frowns. “I can help you, if you want. With your rent.”

 

“I won't have you paying me for...for that. It can't be like that.”

 

“God, no. That's not what I meant. I care about you, that's all.”

 

Charles looks away. “No one cares about me. I learned that lesson the hard way.”

 

Erik's expression softens. “Look, you have no reason to listen to me, let alone trust me. If time is what you need, then I can wait. For as long as it takes.”

 

 _I don't have time,_ Charles thinks, and then Erik is walking away, the distance between them growing with Erik's every step and Charles finds himself jogging to catch up. His fingers close over Erik's shoulder and Erik turns back in surprise.

 

“What--”

 

“Shut up and kiss me.”

 

_THEN:_

The first time it happened, Charles was emerging from a shadowed alley, surreptitiously shoving three hundred dollars in cash into his back pocket. Without warning the world tilted, his vision blurred, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. At first he thought he was lucky to wake up in the non-profit clinic, connected to the IV cocktail that would keep him alive for the next few years thanks to one Dr. Hank McCoy, but later he would learn exactly how wrong he was. He'd find out that it was just another power play, meant to keep him within the grasp of the illustrious Hellfire Club. He'd learn that the clinic, his pathetic, one room apartment, the very ground he walked (or apparently fell) on were all owned by one Sebastian Shaw, and that, by extension, so was he. _This is it,_ Charles thought, taking a swig of stolen Grey Goose as he sat out on the fire escape. _This is all that's left for me._

 

_NOW:_

Erik's apartment has air conditioning. _Actual_ air conditioning. And god, the cool air feels so good against his skin. Almost as good as Erik thrusting inside of him, Erik's mouth on his, Erik bringing him to a perfect sweet release—and then, too soon, it's over, and they're lying, naked and sated, in a tangle of limbs on the bed. Charles feels lightheaded suddenly, and he has to pull away, shifting so that he's on his back next to Erik.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“4:30.”

 

“Shit!” Charles is on his feet in an instant, rummaging through the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. “I'm late for...for an appointment.” When he notices the look on Erik's face, he adds, “It's not like that. I'm not—I mean--” he tugs his shirt on over his head and stalks out out of the room. “An actual appointment. At the clinic.”

 

Erik slides out of bed and follows him down the hall to the front door. “Are you coming back?”

 

Charles stops, his hand resting on the doorknob. He won't look up, doesn't want to be taken in by the hope that he knows he'll see in Erik's eyes. “I...I can't.” he turns the knob and slips out of the apartment without another word.

 

The clinic is only a few blocks away, but by the time he reaches the entrance he's breathing hard and his vision is clouding. Thankfully, Dr. McCoy is in the waiting area, speaking in hushed tones with the blonde receptionist while Alex, one of the bartenders from the Hellfire Club, half sits, half slumps in one of the hard plastic chairs.

 

“You're late,” McCoy chastises Charles, but Charles can barely hear him. He's too busy concentrating on his feet, one in front of the other until McCoy loops an arm around Charles' waist and helps him to the lab at the end of the hallway and onto the examination table.

 

Charles closes his eyes in relief when he feels the familiar prick of an IV needle being inserted into his arm. “Another day, another dose, right, doctor?”

 

“These close calls are going to kill you, Charles,” Dr. McCoy tells him. “You have to keep to your appointments.”

 

“I'm going to die anyway,” Charles mutters. “What does it matter?”

 

“If you believed that, you wouldn't be coming at all.”

 

 _Why am I doing this?_ Charles asks himself the same question each time he visits the clinic, but this is the first time he has an answer. _I just want to see him again._

 

~

 

Erik is on his balcony again. He shouldn't be doing this to himself. It's none of his business how long Charles spends out on the streets, or when he gets home. He shakes his head, tosses his cigarette over the railing, and goes back inside. He needs a shower, and he needs to sleep. He accomplishes the first, the scalding water washing away every last trace of Charles on his skin, then wraps a towel around his waist and walks back outside. It's nearly 8 am now, and the lights in Charles' apartment are still off. He leans on the railing, watching and smoking for another fifteen minutes or so, and then goes back outside. Charles was right, he thinks, he is obsessive. But he can't, and really shouldn't stand out there all day. That would be pathetic, and he has an appointment of his own.

 

The meeting with his agent went well, at least. Erik has managed to cobble together enough pages to make it look like he'll meet his deadline, and promised to spend the rest of the afternoon writing at his favourite hole in the wall cafe. He's sitting there now, having left his laptop at home in favour of a basic spiral notebook and ballpoint pen, in hopes that the tangible feel of the objects will sharpen his focus while he pretends not too think about Charles. His last book of short stories had been written entirely across five of these basic, sixty page notebooks, and he'd submitted them to his agent exactly as they were. Needless to say, he'd received an angry phone call a few days later, demanding a typed and emailed copy, but Erik had shrugged it off. They wanted the work by the deadline, and they'd gotten it.

 

Time passes more quickly once Erik puts pen to paper, blocking out the image of Charles guiding Erik's erection inside him, moving with perfect, rhythmic grace even a he wrapped his legs around Erik's waist--

 

“More coffee?”

 

Erik snaps to attention, a hint of colour rising unbidden to his cheeks. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no.” He eyes the clock on the wall over the server's shoulder. “I have to go, he says, shoving his notebook into the leather messenger bag at his feet. His server just shrugs and fishes into her apron pocket for his bill. She drops it on the table and walks away, steaming coffee pot in hand. Erik doesn't even look at it, the amount is always the same. He drops the right amount of cash, and a generous tip, onto the receipt and hurries out the door, hoping he hasn't missed the last bus to the Strip.

 

~

 

Charles' apartment is still dark when Erik arrives home. He isn't on the Strip either when Erik jogs past Charles' usual spot, noticing the way the girl with the tattooed wings keeps glancing furtively up and down the street. Something is wrong.

 

 _It's none of your business,_ Erik tells himself, leaning against the mirrored walls of his building's elevator. Some john had probably just picked him up earlier. The thought of someone other than Erik touching Charles makes his stomach turn. _It's none of your business._

 

The door to Erik's apartment is unlocked. He narrows his eyes and enters cautiously, searching for signs of a break-in, but finds all of his sparse belongings untouched. Erik sighs and rubs his eyes. He'd probably just forgotten to lock the door when he left that morning, preoccupied as he was with thoughts of... “Charles!”

 

On hearing his name, Charles stirs from where he's curled up beneath Erik's white duvet. “Mm. 's freezing in here.”

 

“You could have turned the a/c down,.” Erik adjusts the temperature control panel near the doorway before coming over to sit on the bed next to Charles. “How did you get in here? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

 

Charles yawns and sits up, tugging the edges of the duvet over his shoulders, and Erik catches the smell of alcohol on Charles' breath. “I'm sorry, is lock picking too intrusive for my 4am balcony stalker?” When Erik doesn't say anything, Charles bites his lip and looks away. “Can I...I mean, would you...” he exhales and blurts out the rest in a rush.

“Can I stay here? Just for a few days. I've been properly evicted this time and I just need somewhere to sleep until I find a new place, and I'm not going back on the street again you don't know what it's like out there and I mean you're kind of unbalanced but you're safer than what's out there.” he covers his face with his hands, embarrassed.

 

“Stay as long as you need,” Erik says. “At least then I'll know where you are.”

 

“That's more than a little creepy,” Charles drops his hands into his lap, and the duvet falls from his shoulders. “But beggars can't be choosers, right?” He yawned again an leaned back against the pillows. “I'm not going back out tonight. Too tired.”

 

When Erik stands to leave, Charles speaks up again. “Where are you going?”

 

“The couch.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I'm not about to assume--”

 

“You are so incredibly thick, you know that?”

 

“Excuse me?” Erik raises an eyebrow at him, torn between insult and amusement.

 

“You heard me. Now come to bed before I change my mind.”

 

Erik does as he's asked, undressing and slipping under the covers, and Charles immediately presses up against him, his back to Erik's front. “You're warm. I like it,” he mumbles.

 

Erik lies awake long after Charles falls asleep, with Charles tucked up against him like they were made to fit together, wondering if Charles will still feel the same way about sharing a bed once he's sober.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary what summary? Thank you as always for reading and leaving such lovely comments! And hey, if you have a fic rec, either one of yours or someone else's, leave it in the comments - I've been off tumblr forever and on't know what's new and exciting in the Cherik fandom anymore xD

Charles really does look for a new apartment. It's not his fault that there aren't that many options around the Strip. He can't go back to his old building, or to any of the buildings on that block. Every single one is owned by Shaw, and he won't keep living within Shaw's greedy grasp. Erik's building is oddly not a Hellfire property, something about the landlords selling their air rights to maintain ownership.

Every other flat Charles visits has something wrong with it. The first is an actual closet, less than half of what Charles has been evicted from, and for nearly double the rent. The next three are completely out of his budget, and five and six have bed bugs. Charles is willing to put up with many things, but bed bugs are not one of them. He returns to Erik disheartened and exhausted, ranting to him about his day over leftover Thai food.

“It's not like this neighbourhood is in high demand. The owners just jack up the prices to stay competitive with the Hellfire Club,” Charles complains between bites. “I don't get it.”

“No one's going to compete for a room with a view out here. Well,” he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half smile, “some might.”

“Not that,” Charles chooses to ignore the not so subtle reference to Erik's own balcony view. “I don't understand why you clearly have at least a half decent income and you're still living off of takeaway.”

Erik shrugs. “I never learned to cook.”

“I did,” Charles remarks nonchalantly, focusing intently on his food when he feels Erik's eyes on him. “If you bought some real food, I could cook for you. For us,” he corrects himself quickly. “I should be doing something to earn my keep.”

Erik starts to say something, but seems to think better of it. “We can go to the grocery store tomorrow, if you want,” he offers instead.

Charles shifts uncomfortably. He didn't want to go shopping together. This is getting far too domestic for his liking. But he can't back out now, not after he brought it up.

“Okay, but after I look at the other flats on my list.” This isn't permanent. Another day, maybe two, and then he'll be out of here. He won't let this become anything more than transitory.

 

~

Charles finds something wrong with every apartment he visits. The rent is too high, here's mould on the ceiling tiles, or the landlord is a lecherous old pervert. Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow will be the last day. He'll settle for whatever has decent plumbing and the least cockroaches at this point. This is exactly what he repeats to Erik while they roam the aisles of the grocery store on the outskirts of the Strip, Erik dutifully pushing the shopping art while Charles chooses an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables.

“Are you sure you're alright with this?” Charles peers into the cart, mentally adding up the cost of its contents. “I feel like I'm taking advantage.”

“We should both be living off of something other than fried food, alcohol, and cigarettes,” Erik answers as they approach the checkout.

“Just to be clear, I'm not giving up alcohol.” Charles begins unloading items onto the conveyor belt. “Or cigarettes, for that matter.” He watches the total on the screen continue to climb as the cashier rings in their groceries. “Seriously. Are you sure this is okay? Because I have some cash left if you—mm.”

Erik cuts him off with a soft, lingering kiss, causing Charles to completely lose his train of thought. He feels lightheaded all of a sudden, and it's not for the usual reason. Oh, he realizes, Erik is speaking to him again. “What was that?”

“I said, help me carry the bags?”

“Oh. Of course.”

 

~

Charles doesn't view any apartments the next day, or the next. He spends time with Erik instead, teaching him how to cook (Erik burns nearly everything, which Charles finds hilarious), playing chess (Charles discovered the board buried under a stack of old notebooks), and watching movies from Erik's extensive, but untouched, collection of DVDs. And the sex, oh, the sex. The way Erik had lazily circled the tip of Charles' erection with his tongue this morning had nearly driven Charles mad with desire, but Erik held Charles' hips firmly in place and took Charles' length into his mouth, while Charles breathlessly moaned Erik's name over and over again like a mantra.

Afterwards, kissing Erik's sticky, glistening lips, Charles had suggested that they spend today in bed, and Erik, of course, readily agreed. There isn't much that Erik doesn't agree to where Charles was concerned.

Charles has been distracted lately by his newfound contentment in being with Erik, and as such he'd completely forgotten about his appointment with McCoy the night before. He convinces himself that it will be fine, he's missed a dose before without too many side effects, but today he can barely see straight when he sits up, and standing is definitely not an option right now. Charles flops back against the pillows and rest his head against Erik's shoulder. Lying here like this, he can pretend he isn't sick, and that he's probably not going to have another episode right here, right now. He's been doing so well for the past couple of weeks. Being with Erik has made him feel healthy, even normal, again.

“Fucking hell,” Charles mutters, and Erik pauses in the middle of stroking Charles' hair.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I guess I just always figured peace was never an option.”

 

~

The following night, Charles makes his excuses, explaining that in his line of work, he needs to get checked out regularly, and the free clinic is only open at night, and so on. Erik asks if he'd like some company, but Charles declines. He still believes that if he keeps anything illness-related separate from his life here, then maybe one won't start affecting the other. '

The humidity makes Charles nauseous when he leaves the clean, filtered air of the apartment building, but he pushes on, wiping sweat from his temples as he reaches the clinic.

“Will you ever stop doing this to yourself?” Dr. McCoy pushes his glasses up on his nose and takes Charles' arm to help him into the lab. “No one's seen you on the Strip in awhile. I was starting to get worried,” he remarks, inserting the needle of the IV into Charles' arm.

“I'm taking care of myself,” Charles is deliberately vague, hoping to avoid confrontation.

“Except where it matters, apparently,” McCoy mutters.

“How long is this going to take?”

“As long as it always does.” McCoy shuffles through the files strewn across his desk until he finds what he's looking for. “You have somewhere to be?”

Charles doesn't answer. It was so easy to fall into a routine with Erik and ignore everything else. He hasn't turned a trick since before Erik showed up at his door, hasn't been to the clinic since their second night together. He has the sudden, sinking feeling that things are going too well, that shit can and will hit the fan eventually, but for now he shoves those unwanted thoughts away. He'll just keep taking things one day at a time, like he has since the night the Sunset Strip became his home. It's not as if he has a future to look forward to, anyway.

“Off you go, then.”

Charles blinks and glances over at the doctor, who's removing the IV and cleaning up the lab. Sometimes he forgets that Hank is younger than him, by five years at least, and Charles wonders how someone of his age and medical genius ended up here, of all places. “Already?” McCoy chuckles. “You fell asleep again, Charles. It's been an hour.”

Charles stands, a little unsteadily, and thanks Dr. McCoy before leaving out the back emergency exit onto the street. This way leads past the stage doors for the Hellfire Club, in the alley that was, until very recently, his place of work. He rounds the corner, pausing to make sure none of Shaw's people are out and about, and ducks into the alleyway before he can change his mind. Angel is out on the stoop in red lingerie, smoking and chatting with some of the other dancers. When she spots Charles, she drops her cigarette and runs over to him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Charles! Where the hell have you been? I've been so worried!”

“Can't...breathe,” Charles gasps, and Angel loosens her hold on him.

“Sorry, but no one's seen you in ages! I was scared I'd find you dead in a ditch somewhere!”

“There aren't any ditches around here.” Charles pulls away from her and anxiously runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what I mean. So? Let's have it.” Angel puts her hands on her hips. “Where've you been all this time?”

Charles glances behind her at the other girls. They're completely ignoring Charles and Angel, but he still doesn't trust them. “I...I'm staying with someone. A friend.”

“Charles.” Angel frowns disapprovingly.”It's not that guy you were yelling at last time I saw you, is it?”

He looks down at the ground, fidgeting the with edge of his shirt sleeve.

“Damn it, Charles, I thought you were smarter than that! That guy is such a creep, you know he's been stalking you for ages, jogging past here every night like that, plus he has a weekly VIP spot at the club, and you just go ahead and move in with him?”

Charles throws up his hands in frustration. “Why did everyone know I had a stalker except me? Wait,” he says, Angel's words slowly sinking in, “you don't mean the Hellfire Club?”

“The one and only. I just saw him tonight, talking to another guy at his usual table.”

“He has a usual—fuck me.” Charles covers his face with his hands. “I'm such an idiot.”

Angel rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It's okay. It's not too late to leave him.”

“I don't have anywhere else to go! Shaw evicted me!”

“So come crash with me.” Angel shrugs. “I have a couch and a ceiling fan, which is better than nothing. Chip in a bit for the rent and we're square.”

Charles looks up at her, red-eyed and refusing to cry. “You would do that?”

Angel rolls her eyes. “Of course I would, Charles. We gotta take care of each other out here, because no one else will. You know, you should have just come to me in the first place.”

“I think...I think I need to talk to Erik.”

“Oh my god, will you just leave him already?”

Charles shakes his head, already backing towards the street. “You don't know him.”

“And you do?” Angel retorts. “You don't need his permission to move out, Charles. Charles? Please don't do anything stupid,” she calls after him, but he's already running up the street.

 

~

Erik is sitting on the couch with his laptop when Charles gets back. When Charles approaches, he sets his work to the side with a smile. “I missed you.”

“Sure you did.”

Erik's smile falters. “Charles, is something wrong?”

“I stopped by my old spot to see Angel.” Charles balls his hands into fists at his sides. “She said she saw you at the Hellfire Club tonight.”

“Oh,” Erik says.

“'Oh'? Is that all you've got to say for yourself?”

“Charles--”

“You know, I was really starting to think you meant it,” Charles interrupts, pacing angrily in front of the couch. “All that shit you said about caring about me, about _loving_ me, and then I find out you're sneaking off to the strip club with some other guy? You better have a damn good excuse, Erik, or I'm leaving. Tonight.”

“Look, it's not what you think.” Erik sighs. “I don't care about the dancers or any of that, and that man Angel saw? His name is Janos. He's my agent.”

“And you meet at the Hellfire Club.” Charles glares at him, disbelieving.

Erik shrugs. “It's not my choice. Janos picked it because it's close to my home, so I have no excuse for missing a meeting, and he likes the girls.”

Charles stops pacing and slowly unclenches his fists. “You're not seeing someone else.”

“Of course not.” Then, “Why Charles, were you actually jealous?”

“What?” Charles' cheeks flush crimson. “No! Why would I—that's ridiculous!” he declares indignantly. Erik rises to his feet and draws Charles into his arms, clearly pleased when Charles doesn't push him away.

“I love you.”

“I...don't completely despise you.”

Erik grins. “I'll take it.” He leans in to kiss Charles, but Charles puts a finger up between them.

“Promise me there won't be any secrets between us,” he says, painfully aware of the one he still has to keep. “I don't need any more lies in my life, especially not from you.”

“No secrets,” Erik agrees without hesitation. “Will you let me kiss you now?”

Charles pretends to think for a second, then pushes Erik back down on the couch and straddles his lap. “I'm still new to this, but I'm pretty sure makeup sex is in order,” he purrs, rolling his hips and eliciting a sharp gasp from Erik. “You say you love me? Show me.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving right along....I was going to wait to post this but hey, it's done, so here we go again xD Such plot, much advancement, many unresolved issues. Probably another 2-3 chapters to go? This is a fast one. For me, anyway. Anyone who's actually kept up my other fics knows it literally takes me 2-4 years to complete a fic sometimes >.>

Charles still doesn't trust him. He acts as though everything's alright, that the confrontation between him and Erik last week didn't change things, but Charles still can't shake the feeling that Erik is hiding something from him. Of course, Charles remembers with a stab of guilt, he still hasn't told Erik about his illness. He knows he's running out of time, but he can't deal with what Erik might do if he finds out. Will Erik pity him? Will he try and take him to a real hospital? Or, worst of all, will he ask Charles to leave, unable (or unwilling) to deal with a lover with an expiration date?

“Charles?”

Charles stops walking and looks around. He's nearly walked right past the alleyway. “Hey, Angel.”

“You really need to stop disappearing like that,” Angel chastises him. She wraps her black silk robe around her body and crosses her arms. “At least come by and let me know you're okay.”

“That's kind of why I'm here,” Charles admits. “I don't think I am.”

Angel's expression softens. “What's going on? Can I help?”

Charles drops his voice almost to a whisper. “Erik told me he goes to the Hellfire Club to meet his agent. For his books.”

“But you don't believe him.”

“I...I don't know what to believe,” Charles admits quietly. “Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I need to see for myself.”

Angel nods sagely. “It's not being paranoid, Charles, it's being safe. If there's one thing I've learned from living out here, it's that you can't trust anyone.”

Charles shuffles his feet nervously. “Um. I was hoping maybe you could sneak me in the back? I don't want Shaw or his 'queen' to know I'm here.”

“Of course,” Angel says without hesitation. “I can get you in backstage, and from there you know your way around.”

Charles nods. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

 

~

 

Angel takes him the long way around, backstage and through the dressing room, which is full of girls hurrying to get ready for the next act. Charles watches them laugh and chatter away while they tighten each others' corsets, apply fake lashes, and trade makeup, completely oblivious to Angel and Charles cutting through.

“Okay. Erik's table is stage left, booth two. Got it?” Angel tells him as they traverse the long, red carpeted hallway to the main lounge.

“Yes.” Charles remembers the VIP area, and their very particular clientele, intimately. There are a lot of things he's done here that he'd much rather forget.

“You can still see and hear everything from behind that velvet curtain,” Angel continues. “You know the one. I'm on stage in ten, so make sure you get back here before then, alright?”

“Thank you, Angel. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Angel waves him off. “You can thank me after we prove everything's kosher.”

Charles slips out the “Staff Only” door and over to the massive red curtain separating the VIP and regular seating. In the space between he's completely invisible to the patrons and staff, and he's close enough to Erik's table that he'll be able to tell exactly what's going on. Peeking between layers of heavy fabric, Charles watches as Erik arrives at his booth, speaking animatedly with another man in a slate grey suit, dark hair falling in waves to his shoulders. That must be Janos, Erik's agent, Charles realizes.

“I know I've been a little distracted,” Erik is saying. “But I'll make the deadline, just like I always--”

“Basilisk,” Janos interrupts. “Engine. Rook. Foxglove.”

Erik's posture visibly shifts, becoming more rigid and attentive. He blinks once, twice, and follows Janos through the door leading to Hellfire's private offices. Charles just barely catches the edge of the door with two fingers before it closes, and he peeks through the crack to see Erik and Janos enter the last door on the right. Charles has frequented that room enough to know exactly what that is. Shaw's office.

He feels nauseous all of a sudden, but he can't turn back now. He has to know what Erik is doing here, and what those words meant. Are they some kind off code? Charles treads lightly, his footsteps soundless on the plush, red carpet, and presses his back against the wall next to Shaw's office door. Standing very still like this, he can hear the only slightly muffled conversation inside.

“I've been very patient with you, Erik,” Shaw is saying. “I was patient when you failed to kill the Xavier boy the first time, after I told you I'd gotten the signature I needed.”

Charles' eyes widen in shock, and, unthinking, he grips the doorknob to keep from collapsing.

“I was even patient when you took him in after I evicted him, thinking that maybe if I catered to this little whim of yours, you'd be more willing to obey.”

“Sir, I--”

“Enough.” Shaw cuts Erik off abruptly. “Obviously I've been too lenient with you. This game no longer amuses me. If you won't kill him yourself, then your new orders are to visit the good doctor at the clinic. Use the codewords: Monkshood. Captain. Argon. Blue.”

Charles can't think, can barely breathe. What is going on? Erik is working for Shaw like...like a hired hitman?

“You were always one of my best sleeper agents, Erik,” Shaw continues.

Not hired, then. Conditioned.

“But if you refuse to comply this last time, you're off the board and back on my operating table. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles' vision blurs, and he grips the knob more tightly to keep his balance, causing it to rattle in his hand.

“What is that?”

He lets go and stumbles backwards, unable to focus long enough to find an exit. “No, not here...” he gasps, but the office door is already opening, and even this far gone he recognizes Sebastian Shaw's contemptuous smirk.

“Well, well,” Shaw's tone drips with disdain. “It looks like we've caught ourselves a mouse. Erik.”

“Sir?”

“Dispose of it. Now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“N—no,” Charles gasps. He can't breathe, the walls are closing in and the last thing he sees is Erik reaching out to him before he blacks out.

 

~

 

Erik is awake. Janos didn't have the chance to speak the trigger words before Erik scooped Charles into his arms and rushed out the back doors, seeking the most direct route to the clinic. He remembers exactly what he is, the monster Shaw made him into, and how Charles made him feel like maybe he could be something else.

He follows the order he's given, speaking the trigger words that Shaw gave him to wake Dr. McCoy. McCoy stiffens and cocks his head to one side. “Is it time for the final dose?”

Charles stirs slightly as Erik lowers him onto the examination table. “No.”

McCoy frowns. “No?”

“New orders,” Erik says brusquely. “Are you able to counter the effects of the poison?”

“It's not technically poison, so yes.” McCoy adjusts his glasses and sets up a fresh IV next to Charles. “The levels of deuterium oxide in his body aren't enough to kill him yet. I can reverse the effects with a specialized intravenous rehydration solution.”

“English, doctor?”

McCoy inserts the needle into Charles' skin. “I have to flush out the heavy—uh, bad water and replace it with the usual kind.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Three, maybe four hours.”

Erik grabs the chair from behind McCoy's desk to sit next to Charles, who is still unconscious. “Fine. I'm staying with him.”

McCoy narrows his eyes. “I get the feeling that Shaw didn't order this.”

“Monkshood. Captain. Argon. Blue.”

The doctor's expression brightens. “Do you want a coffee or something? I'll be back in an hour or so to check up on our patient here.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” Erik leans back in the chair, his gaze never leaving Charles' face. He falls silent while McCoy shuffles some papers around and finally leaves the room. “I'm sorry, Charles,” he says quietly. “I promised I wouldn't lie to you, and it turns out I'm not even a real person.”

“I...trusted you.”

Charles' voice is so soft, Erik can barely hear him.

“You...lied.”

“You should rest. You're not well.”

Charles' breath hitched, almost like a laugh. “Rest? While this...kills me? No.”

“It's not killing you, Charles,” Erik reaches out to cover Charles' hand with his own. “It's flushing out the poison.”

“Don't touch me,” Charles rasps, and Erik withdraws his hand as if he's been slapped. “You...owe me. The truth. Talk.”

“You want the truth? Fine.” Erik folds his hands into his lap. “Sebastian Shaw killed my mother, told me it was a horrible accident, and took me in when I was twelve. I don't remember all of it, but I do remember the pain. I still have nightmares about being strapped to that table, ripped apart physically and mentally like Frankenstein's Monster. Although when I'm 'sleeping', I have no idea what they mean.” He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. “I was his first successful sleeper. The rest...well, you don't want to know what happened to them.”

“This...is insane.”

“You heard what happened in Shaw's office tonight, and you've witnessed his cruelty firsthand,” Erik counters. “You can't honestly believe the Hellfire Club is just a strip bar.”

Charles closes his eyes. “Why. Does he want me dead.”

“Isn't it obvious? He wants your money.” Erik shakes his head. “Can you imagine what he could accomplish with basically unlimited wealth? He kept you and tortured you because it amused him, and once he acquired your signature off of your old credit card, he was done with you.”

“My old...card?”

“Shaw found it in your old apartment. The point is, he needed a signature to forge papers that would allow him to claim your inheritance.”

“Its always. About the money,” Charles sighs. “Get to the part...about...you lying to me.”

Erik's heart leaps into his throat. “I was told to watch you. So I did.”

“Stalker.”

Erik nearly laughs. “I guess I am. When Shaw ordered me to kill you, I went over to your place to do exactly that.”

“But you didn't.”

“I couldn't,” Erik corrects him. “And I couldn't do it that second night, either. “I really did fall in love with you, Charles. That's the one thing I never lied about.” When Charles doesn't respond, Erik continues, “I think I was trying to buy you some more time. Or maybe my sleeper self just wanted a normal life with you. Either way, Shaw isn't happy that I haven't been following his orders, and you know what happened tonight.”

Charles remains silent for a long time, and Erik wonders if he's passed out from exhaustion. Then, quiet and steady, Charles speaks up again. “You stalked me for Shaw. You lied to me, and then let me trust you and share a bed with you. You let me think I was free from him.”

“Charles--”

“But,” Charles continues, “Obviously you've been abused and manipulated, and I know what that's like.” he inhales slowly through his nose, exhales from his mouth. “Tired. Deal with this...later.”

Erik's chair creaks when he stands up, and Charles cracks one eye open. “Where. Are you going.”

“You need rest. I'll leave you alone.”

“Like hell...you will. Sit. Down.”

Erik complies, grateful that for now, at least, Charles still wants to share a room with him.

 

~

 

Charles watches Dr. McCoy with curiosity, through blood pressure checks and temperature gauges and god knows what else, Charles isn't really paying attention. He's more fascinated with the fact that this version of the doctor is entirely constructed to hide the sleeper within. Erik had explained it to him earlier, and it baffled him that someone so nice could have been slowly poisoning him all this time. Then again, he thinks as he glances over at Erik, maybe it's not quite so difficult to believe.

When McCoy leaves them alone, citing another patient in the next room, Charles slides off the disposable paper, hoping that this is the last time he ever has to hear that familiar crinkling sound as he does so.

“What now?”

Charles stares hard at Erik. This is the real Erik, or so he says. Charles isn't sure what to believe anymore. Well, that's not entirely accurate. He doesn't know what he _wants_ to believe. Erik is a sleeper, a puppet, and he disobeyed his programming for Charles. If he was willing to do that, if he had feelings for Charles both in and out of sleeper mode, doesn't that mean something?

“What's Shaw's next move?” Charles asks.

Erik looks startled, but quickly composes himself. “He'll head upstate to claim your property as his. Probably stop to see a lawyer and have his papers verified, and then see what he can clean out and bring back here. Or he'll case the mansion and see if it would be viable to move his research up there.”

“Then we need to get there first.”

“We?”

“I can't take on Shaw alone, and you're all I've got.” Charles shrugs. Maybe if he acts casual, Erik won't notice that he feels like he'll have a nervous breakdown any second now. “Think you can keep me alive for another day or two?”

Erik's fingers twitch, as if he considered touching Charles, but thought better of it. “Of course.” He might as well have said _I love you_ for all the emotion poured into those two words. It catches Charles off guard, and he bites his lip to keep himself from saying something he'll regret.

“Right then. Let's go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Deuterium oxide is an actual thing, and studies have shown that if 50% or more of the water in your body is replaced with this "heavy water" (it has one extra neutron) it can actually kill you. Until that point, however, it causes vertigo, nausea, vomiting, and other related symptoms. The solution is to let it work its way out of your system, which is what the people in the research studies did, but I felt like Charles needed a speedier solution. Leaving him to purge it all out of his system just felt like cruel and unusual punishment after everything else he's been through.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! I've been handwriting this and then retyping it so it's taking me a little longer to post, but this work is completely finished now. I have one more shorter chapter to post after this, so stay tuned!

Charles sleeps through most of the train ride to Westchester, his head resting against Erik's shoulder. Erik doesn't dare move, despite how badly he wants to circle an arm around Charles and hold him close, for fear that Charles will wake and pull away from him. He wants, no, needs, to be close to Charles, needs Charles to ground him in this reality and make him a whole person again. Erik remembers everything now, right from Shaw pointing the gun at his mother while Erik trembled behind her skirts, barely eleven years old and too much of a coward to protect his mama. He remembers Shaw, taking him in off the street and into a sober, grey bedroom that he shared with six other boys. None of his bunkmates survived the experience. One by one, they were taken away, and Erik would lie awake, listening to their screams of pain long into the night. Only Erik was dumped unceremoniously back into his bed each morning when it was his turn, barely breathing, but alive all the same.

Erik remembers his first “mission” - a simple break and enter, at least to start with. He'd been tasked with retrieving a specific file, kept in the office of one of Shaw's rivals, but complications ensued. When Erik reached the rendezvous point, emotionless and soaked to the elbows with fresh blood, Shaw had clapped his hands together and grinned, predatory and cruel.

After that night, Erik didn't just kill. He excelled at it, and more than that, he enjoyed it. He'd become more creative with each mission, arranging corpses as if they were receiving a phone call, carving his own, subconscious trigger words into their flesh, or placing various body parts around a room as though arranging an art installation.

And then there was Charles. Beautiful, bright, blue-eyed Charles, who unwittingly stole into Erik's long dead heart and altered the programming that Shaw had so thoroughly instilled. He'd never felt this way before, never known he could feel anything at all. Charles had opened up a world of possibilities, one where he wasn't just Frankenstein's soulless monster. Erik had clung to the simple fantasy of waking up to Charles in his bed every morning, pressing his lips to Charles' own with a murmured _good morning._ They'd lie there together, wrapped in each others' arms, until Charles slid out of bed shrugging one of Erik's t-shirts over his lithe, naked form, and tossed Erik a flirtatious smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

Erik imagined this scenario in detail every single night when he jogged past the alley behind the Hellfire Club, stealing glances at the boy who's so enraptured him, unconsciously following Shaw's instructions in sleeper mode.

Charles shifts restlessly against Erik, shielding his eyes against the artificial lights above them. He straightens in his seat and combs his fingers through his hair, pushing stray chestnut locks out of his face. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” Erik answers.

Charles slumps back down and fidgets with the edge of his shirtsleeve. “Shaw's probably already there,” he grumbles. “I don't even know why I'm doing this. There's nothing in that house I want anymore.”

“You've got your entire life ahead of you now,” Erik says. “You deserve a second chance.”

The way Charles looks at him, hopeful and maybe just a little forgiving, makes Erik's heart soar, but the train slows to a stop and Charles is already standing, a mask of indiffference falling into place. “Let's just get this over with.”

 

~

 

“So, mister secret agent, what's the plan?” Charles gazes up at his family's estate and shivers. It was near dusk now, and his lilac long sleeved tee does nothing against the evening chill.

“We go in, we find and burn the documents, we get out.”

“And Shaw?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, but follows Erik as he edges along the stone walls of the mansion, discreetly peering into windows until the reach the first floor study. Erik puts a finger to his lips and gestures inside. Shaw is there, accepting a black briefcase from Janos and setting it on the antique oak desk. Charles can't hear what they're saying, but he does see Shaw click the briefcase open an remove and slim manila file folder.

“I knew we were too late, Charles whispers, but when he glances behind him, Erik is nowhere to be found. “Erik!” he hisses, panic rising in his chest. A few seconds later, he hears a loud crash from the other side of the house, and Shaw and Janos both snap to attention. Shaw says something else to Janos before pulling a handgun out of the briefcase and leaving him alone with the file. Less than a minute after that, Erik emerges, wraithlike, from the shadowed hallway and, in one swift movement, snaps Janos' neck. Charles covers his mouth to stifle a scream. Erik had told him what he was, what he did, but that didn't make it any less jarring to watch. Inside, Erik drops Janos' limp body and runs to the window to unlock it. Charles easily shimmies inside, trying not to stare and Janos' corpse and failing.

“You...you killed him.”

“He's my handler. I can't risk him putting me back into sleep mode. Unless you want me back in Shaw's corner?”

Charles shakes his head mutely.

“Good. Here, take this.” Erik shoves the file into Charles' hands. “You have a lighter. Go to the kitchen, throw these in the sink and burn them. I'll handle Shaw.”

The same way you handled Janos? Charles doesn't dare voice the question aloud. Instead, he follows' Erik's instructions, padding silently to the kitchen down the hall, throwing the occasional furtive glance over his shoulder. Charles removes the set of documents from the file folder and holds them above the sink's wide steel basin, fishing his red Bic lighter from his pocket. He doesn't realizes he's been holding his breath until he drops the papers into the sink, exhaling as he watches the flames consume his forged signature and the Hellfire Club letterhead. Charles allows himself this one moment of triumph, watching with satisfaction as the material evidence of Shaw's deceit is completely destroyed.

“We meet again, little mouse.” Charles stiffens as he hears an all too familiar voice behind him. “Or perhaps cat is more accurate, since you seem to have nine lives.” Charles hears Shaw cock the hammer of his gun. “Turn around.”

Charles obeys, the heel of his sneaker squeaking too loudly against the tiled floor. The gun is positioned just inches from Charles' face, almost filling his field of vision, but he can still make out Shaw's capricious smirk just beyond it.

“This is my house.” Charles' voices trembles, betraying his fear to Shaw, and he curses silently. It's funny, he thinks, he was never actually afraid of dying before.

Shaw chuckles, a low rumble in his throat. “Is it, now?”

“I burned your papers.”

“I can make copies. That's the least of my concern. What really bothers me,” Shaw continues, his finger caressing the trigger of the gun, “Is that neither of my sleepers have managed to kill you.”

Charles catches a flash of movement behind Shaw, a hand reaching up from below the center island to snatch a knife from its wooden block. _Erik._ He has to keep Shaw talking, buy him just a little more time. “It must be so difficult to find good help these days,” Charles comments, trying to sound more confident than he is.

“Erik is the best there is at what he does, you know,” Shaw says. “That is, he was, until he met you. And I was so certain I'd beaten all of those pesky emotions out of him.” He takes a step closer, and Charles flinches. “My perfect, stoic soldier, ruined. All because of some poor little rich boy--” Shaw cuts off, something in the window catching his attention. The reflection, Charles realizes, and Shaw is turning around, but Erik is faster, grabbing the arm holding the gun and snapping it back with a loud crack. Shaw screams in pain, gaping at his limp, contorted limb, and Erik presses his advantage, driving the butcher knife up and underneath Shaw's ribs.

“You're not taking anyone else from me,” Erik snarls, and when Shaw just grins back at him, Erik throws him to the floor in disgust. “I'm done with being your puppet.” As Shaw chokes and gurgles, mouth filling with blood, Erik rushes to Charles' side, cupping Charles' face in his hands. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

Charles can barely hear him. He's deathly pale, and he feels nauseous, the way he had when he was late for his clinic appointments.

“Charles, you're going into shock. You'll be alright, but I need you to focus for me, okay?”

“I...” He stops, a glint of metal catching the corner of his eye, and then Erik is shoving Charles back, covering his body with his own as the shot that rings out, loud and clear in the spacious kitchen. Erik collapses against Charles, his legs giving out beneath him and Charles is sinking to the floor cradling Erik in his shaking arms. He can feel the bullet wound at the base of Erik's spine and he presses his fingers over it, apply pressure, that's what he's supposed to do and hot tears are streaming down his cheeks as he clings to the man who saved his life.

“No, no, no, no,” he moans, and Erik's fingers close over his.

“It's not lethal,” Erik takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I might...I might pass out though. It hurts like a bitch.”

“Damn it, Erik, will you stop saving me all the time? I'm not worth it.”

“I'll...” Erik stops, coughing violently. Charles hurriedly angles him up into a partial sitting position to keep him from choking, the way Shaw is now only a few feet away, the gun falling from his undamaged left hand. “I'll be the judge of that. Pants pocket. Call an ambulance.”

Charles' hands are still trembling as he locates Erik's phone, dialing 911 with bloodied fingers. “Hello? I need an ambulance. My, uh, my friend's been shot. The Xavier Estate. No, I don't remember. It's the big fucking house on Graymalkin! Did I mention he's been shot?” Charles shouts into the phone. “Just get me a fucking ambulance before he loses too much blood. No no no Erik, stay with me.” the phone slips from his fingers, clattering to the tiled floor when he notices that Erik's eyes are closed.

“I want you by my side, you hear me?” he whispers, resting his forehead against Erik's temple. “We're not done yet, you and I.”

 

~

 

The paramedics had to sedate Charles twice before Erik was brought into surgery. First, when Charles was forcibly pried away from Erik's unconscious form, attempting to calm him first with words, and then with a light tranquilizer, and again when they reach the emergency room and Erik is immediately carted away. Charles had pitched a fit, not wanting to be left alone, until security arrived and deposited his limp, sedated body into a hospital bed in a shared room, divided by a single thick, yellowing curtain.

Now, having woken from his drug-induced slumber, Charles is being questioned by a pretty brunette police detective, who had introduced herself as Moira MacTaggart before launching into the interview.

“Name?”

“Charles Xavier.” He's so tired. Can't they do this later?

MacTaggart raises an eyebrow. “Xavier.”

“Did I stutter.”

“Police records indicate that Charles Xavier is dead.”

“Recent events indicate that I'm not.” He doesn't have the patience for this. “Where's Erik? I want to see him.”

“Do you have any I.D?” Moira asks, ignoring his question.

Charles juts his chin towards his clothes, stacked neatly on the side table. “In my—in my pants pocket.” _Pants pocket. Call an ambulance._ He swallows hard. “Where's Erik?”

“He's resting now.” Detective MacTaggart rifles through his jeans and retrieves a battered leather wallet containing $300 cash and an expired driver's license. She holds it up, comparing the face on the card to Charles. “You don't age at all, do you?”

“It made me popular on the streets.”

MacTaggart pockets the card, tucks the wallet back into his pants and folds them neatly on the counter before sitting down next to the bed. “Start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”

Charles complies, the words flowing easily as he recounts what Shaw did to him. He leaves out the part about Erik working for Shaw, carefully editing his account and painting Erik as the perfect white knight. Afterwards, MacTaggart closes her notebook and slips it into her pocket with Charles' I.D.

“Between your account and the evidence my team recovered at the Hellfire Club tonight, we have enough to shut down their operation for good. Would you be willing to testify against Sebastian Shaw and the Hellfire Club in a court of law?”

Charles hesitates. “Where is Shaw now?”

“In the morgue, thanks to your Mr. Lehnsherr.”

“What'll happen to Erik?”

The detective shrugs. “If you testify in front of a court and confirm that both murders were an act of self defence, he'll get off on probation. If you get yourselves a good lawyer and the sympathy vote, he'll most likely be acquitted of any charges.”

Acquitted. “Then...yes. I'll do it.”

“Perfect.” She stands and pulls the dividing curtain back, and Charles' breath catches in his throat. Erik is passed out in the adjacent bed, propped up on pillows and hooked to that familiar IV.

MacTaggart smiles softly. “I didn't want you distracted during the interview.”

“How...how is he?”

“He'll pull through. I heard one of the doctors say he's a fighter.”

_You've no idea._

“Oh, and I may have mentioned to the nurses that you'd be easier to deal with if you two shared a room.”

Charles bites his lip, embarrassed by his earlier outbursts. “Thank you.”

The detective just winks at him and slips out of the room, closing the door behind her. The moment the door clicks shut, Charles is out of bed, mind reeling from the aftereffects of the sedatives, but he maintains his balance and crosses the room to crawl into the other man's bed, curling against Erik's side. Soon he too is fast asleep, fingers laced through Erik' as his breathing slows to a deep, easy rhythm.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, final chapter, because I felt weird cramming this into Chapter 5 >.> Anyway, thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting! Going to maybe update some other things and start a new and different project soon!

“You tell him.”

“No way. You saw what happened last time they were separated. It took for security guards to restrain him. Kid's small, but scary as hell.”

“Someone has to tell him.”

Charles stirs and raises his head, momentarily forgetting where he is until his gaze falls on two younger men in lab coats, students, from the looks of them, arguing in the doorway.

“Tell me what?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. His other hand remains locked in Erik's. Erik is still passed out, the steady beep of the heart monitor confirming that he is still stable.

“Uh, hospital—hospital protocol doesn't, um, doesn't allow...” the first student trips over his words nervously, his stammer punctuated by a slight Irish lilt. “That is--”

“Patients aren't supposed to share a bed,” the other blurts out. At Charles' darkening expression, he falters. “I mean, um, it's against policy. Health risks, and such.”

“The only health risk here is yours if you think I'm leaving him,” Charles retorts.

“But we were sent to tell you--”

“And you did. You can go now.”

A woman appears behind he two students, crisp white lab coat worn over a red turtleneck and black pencil skirt. Charles just glowers at her and her severe, carmine red ponytail.

“Is there a problem?” the doctor asks pointedly.

Charles juts his chin at the students. “Ask them.”

She smiles amiably and quietly asks the boys to leave before crossing the room to stand in front of the bed.

“It's Charles, right? She adjusts her glasses as she peruses the wooden clipboard in her hand. “I'm Dr. Jean Grey. I oversaw Erik's surgery.”

Charles blinks and shifts so that he's sitting up, thigh resting against Erik's. “Is he...is he going to be okay?”

Dr. Grey purses her lips. “The bullet pierced his spinal cord and severed the nerve endings connected to his legs.”

Charles grips Erik's hand more tightly. “What are you saying?”

“Well, we won't know for certain until he wakes up, but unfortunately, there is a very high probability that he will never walk again.”

Charles' pales, eyes shining. “No. No, you're mistaken.”

Dr. Grey looks away. “I'm sorry. We could only do so much.”

Charles vehemently shakes his head. “No! There has to be something, anything—look, I have money now. I can pay for whatever treatment he needs--” he feels a light squeeze to he hand and cuts off, immediately distracted by... “Erik!”

“It's okay, Charles.” Erik's hazel grey eyes slowly focus on Charles' own. “It was worth it to have you here, safe and alive.”

“God, I hate you so much, you know that?” Charles angrily brushes a tear first from one cheek, then the other. “Will you just shut up and let me help you for once?”

Erik closes his eyes, composing himself, opens them again. “There's nothing you can do. You heard the doctor, the nerves have been completely severed. Even bleeding to death on the floor, Shaw knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Yeah? Well he's dead now,” Charles barely registers Dr. Grey slipping away to give them their privacy. “So I don't need you risking your life for me anymore, alright?”

Erik looks like he's been shot. Again. “I...I understand if you don't want me anymore. Especially like this.”

Charles gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

“I did what you asked. You're safe now. You don't need me weighing you down.”

To Erik's complete and utter surprise, Charles starts to laugh. “I don't see anything funny about this,” Erik grumbles.

“You idiot,” Charles says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You perfect, beautiful, stupid man.” And then Charles is kissing him, thumbs caressing Erik's cheekbones as he pours every emotion he's felt in the last sixteen hours into this one, simple act. Erik relaxes under him and rests his hands on Charles' waist, revelling in the familiar, warm weight of his body pressing against Erik's. Charles breaks away too soon for Erik's liking, and he angled his head up to steal one more soft, chaste kiss.

“After all we've been through, you didn't stoop to think that I might have fallen a little bit in love with you?” Charles raps his knuckles lightly against Erik's skull with a playful grin. “I told you, thick as bricks up there.”

“But I'm a monster.”

“You're my monster.”

“I kill people.”

“You did that for me. Also, I think you've just been forced to retire.” Charles casts a meaningful look at Erik's legs under the linen sheet.

“You think I couldn't take someone out like this?” Erik frowns, offended. “I'm not an invalid, Charles. You want a killer? I'll kill anyone you want!”

Charles kisses him again, smiling against Erik's mouth. “You're adorable.”

“I am not,” Erik sulks.

“Don't worry, darling. We're going to move into my comically large mansion and live together forever in domestic bliss and you'll never have to worry about people trying to poison my, shoot me, or send super sexy sleeper agents to stalk and seduce me.” Charles curls up against him, cheek resting on Erik's shoulder. “And we'll install elevators and move your things in, including that insanely comfortable bed of yours, and I'll make you breakfast every morning because you still can't cook for shit.”

Erik turns his head just enough to rest his chin against Charles' forehead. “We are the most dysfunctional couple.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I love you.”

“Mmhmm.”

 

~

 

**(Obligatory time lapse epilogue)**

 

Charles reaches blindly for the alarm, smacking the snooze button before draping himself across his lover's body again.

“Charles.” Erik's fingers trace the curve of Charles' spine. “It's time to get up.”

“Five more minutes,” comes the mumbled reply.

A smile tugs at the corners of Erik's mouth. “Not today, my love.”

Charles groans and tilts his head up to press soft, sleepy kisses to Erik's collarbone, throat, jawline. “Love you.” the words are a whispered affirmation against Erik's skin.

“You only say that when you want something.” Erik shifts to meet Charles' exploring mouth with his own, catching Charles' lower lip between his teeth.

“Mm. Want you. Only you.”

“That's good news, because after today you're stuck with me, professor.”

“I'm not a professor yet, darling.” Charles straddles his thighs on either side of Erik's hips, just high enough that he knows Erik can feel the warmth of his bare legs, and rests his chin against the taller man's shoulder, nuzzling against his ear. “A wedding and graduation in the same week,” Charles murmurs. “What were we thinking?”

Erik's breath catches as Charles' voice vibrates against his skin. “That if we do it all at once we can spend the rest of the summer very drunk and very naked on a private beach?”

“Oh yes. I remember now.”

“And as much as I'd love to stay here with you doing— _ohh that, yes just like that—_ you should probably help me take a shower so that your sister doesn't yell at us for being late again.”

Charles hums contentedly, but makes no move to get up. “My favourite thing to do.”

“Showering?”

“You.”

 


End file.
